The Alienist

pocketed it, and then smoothed his waxed mustache. He put his hands on his hips, ready to fight—but I just straightened my white tie and neatened my cuffs.

“Try milk, Riley,” I said. “I hear it helps the bones grow.”

Riley went for his pocket again, but Ellison laughed and restrained him with an effusive hug. “Aw, that’s all right, Razor, let the guy crack wise, it ain’t gonna hurt you.” Then he turned to me and put an arm around my neck. “Come on, Moore, I’ll buy you a drink. And you can tell me how come it is you turned into my pal all of a sudden.”

We stood at the bar, and I could see all the sad business of the Hall reflected in a large mirror that ran along the wall behind the endless bottles of bad liquor. Remembering exactly who and what I was dealing with, I abandoned the cherished idea of a brandy (besides being of shockingly poor quality, it was likely to be laced with any combination of camphor, benzine, cocaine shavings, and chloral hydrate) and ordered a beer. The swill I was given may even have been beer, too, at some point in its existence. As I took a sip, one of the chanteuses on the stage at the other end of the Hall began to whine:

There’s a name that’s never spoken,

And a mother’s heart half broken,

There is just another missing from the old home, that’s all…

Ellison took a glass of whiskey, then turned when a boy-whore patted his rump. Biff tweaked the youth’s cheek roughly.

“Well, Moore?” he said, staring into the boy’s painted eyes. “Why the good turn? Don’t tell me you’d like to sample the wares down here.”

“No, not tonight, Biff,” I said. “What I thought was that maybe since I helped you out with the cops, you might be willing to share some information—you know, give me a hand with the story, that kind of thing.”

He eyed me up and down as the boy-whore disappeared into the noisy throng. “Since when does the God- almighty New York Times run stories like that? And where the hell you been tonight, anyway, a funeral?”

“The opera,” I answered. “And the Times isn’t the only paper in town.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t sound convinced. “Well, I don’t know nothing about it, Moore. Gloria, she used to be okay. Really. Hell, I let her use one of the rooms upstairs, even. But she got—troublesome. Starts asking for a bigger cut, starts telling the other girls they ought to ask for one, too. So, a couple a nights ago, I says—Gloria, keep it up and you’re out on your pretty little ass. Then she plays like she’ll make nice, but I don’t trust her no more. I was gonna get rid of her—not in any permanent meaning of the word, right?—but just kick her out, let her work the streets a couple a weeks and see how she liked it. And then—this.” He gulped whiskey and blew cigar smoke. “The little guttersnipe had it coming, Moore.”

I waited a moment for him to go on; but his attention was distracted by two young men in stockings and garters who were shouting threats at each other out on the dance floor. Knives soon appeared. Ellison chuckled at the sight, and then offered his assessment:

“You two bitches cut each other up you won’t be no good to nobody!”

“Biff?” I said eventually. “So that’s all you can tell me?”

“That’s all,” he answered with a nod. “Now, how about you get outta here before there’s trouble?”

“Why? You hiding something? Upstairs, maybe?”

“No, I ain’t hiding anything,” he answered, annoyed. “I just don’t like reporters in my place. And my customers don’t like it, neither. Some of ’em are respectable boys, you know—got families and positions to consider.”

“Then maybe you’ll let me take a look at the room Gior—Gloria used. Just to convince me you’re square.”

Ellison sighed, leaning back on the bar. “Don’t push it, Moore.”

“Five minutes,” I answered.

He considered it and nodded. “Five minutes. But don’t talk to nobody. Third door on your left, when you get up the stairs.” I started to move away. “Hey.” As I turned back, he handed me my beer. “Don’t abuse my hospitality, pal.”

I nodded and took the beer, then pushed through the crowd to a staircase at the back of the Hall. Several boys and men approached me, seeing the evening suit and smelling money. They propositioned me with every conceivable line, some running their hands along my chest and thighs. But I put a good grip on my billfold and stayed on course to the staircase, trying to keep the physically repellant suggestions with which I was peppered from registering in my mind. As I passed the stage, the droning singer—a fat, middle-aged man wearing heavy facial powder, lip rouge, and a top hat—repeated the refrain:

Yes, there is still a mem’ry living,

There’s a father unforgiving,

And a picture that is turn-ed to the wall!

The inside of the staircase was unlit, but the glow of the Hall crept in enough to let me see where I was going. The old, colorless paint on the walls was peeling badly, and as I mounted the first step I heard a grunting sound coming from behind me. Looking into a dark recess on the other side of the doorway, I saw the faint outlines of a youth, his face shoved up against the wall, and another, an older man, who was pressing against the youth’s naked backside. With a shudder that made me trip I turned away and hurried up the stairs, pausing once I was in the bare second-floor hall to take a big belt of beer.

Calming a bit, but beginning to wonder about the wisdom of my initiative, I found the third door on the left: a thin, simple wooden job, just like all the others in the hallway. I grabbed the knob, but then thought to knock. I was surprised when a boy’s voice said:

“Who is it?”

I opened the door slowly. There was nothing in the room but an old bed and a night table next to it. The paint on the walls was a red that had turned brown, and it was peeling in the corners. There was a small window that looked out on the blank brick wall of the building next door, across about ten feet of alley space.

On the bed sat a flaxen-haired kid, maybe fifteen, his face painted much as Giorgio Santorelli’s had been. He wore a sheer linen shirt with lace cuffs and collar, and some theatrical tights. The makeup around his eyes was smudged—he’d been crying.

“I’m not working right now,” he said, straining to reach a falsetto pitch. “Maybe you could come back in an hour or so.”

“That’s all right,” I said, “I’m not—”

“I said I’m not working!” the young man shouted, losing the falsetto altogether. “Oh, God, get out, can’t you see I’m upset?”

He broke down in tears, clutching at his face, and I stood by the door, suddenly noticing that it felt very warm in the room. I watched the boy for a few minutes, and then something occurred to me:

“You knew Gloria,” I said.

The boy sniffed and wiped carefully at his eyes. “Yes. I knew her. Oh, my face—please go away.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m trying to find out who killed him—her.”

The boy looked up at me plaintively. “Are you a cop?”

“No, a reporter.”

“A reporter?” He looked back at the floor, wiped his eyes again, and chuckled humorlessly. “Well, I’ve got a hell of a story for you.” He stared out of the window forlornly. “Whoever it was that they found down on that bridge—it couldn’t have been Gloria.”

“Wasn’t Gloria?” The rising temperature in the room was making me thirsty, and I took another big swig of beer. “What makes you think so?”

“Because Gloria never left this room.”

“Never—” It occurred to me that I’d been up too long and had too much to drink: I was having trouble following the kid. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you what I mean. That night, I was in the hallway, outside my room, with a customer. I saw Gloria come in here, alone. I was out there for a good hour, and her door never opened. I figured she was asleep. My customer left after buying me a couple of drinks—the guy didn’t want to pay the price for Sally. That’s me. Sally’s expensive, and he didn’t have what it takes. So I stood there another half an hour, waiting for somebody else to